


The Bane of John Watson

by jennybookworm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennybookworm/pseuds/jennybookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had a hard time after Sherlock fell, and he really didn't know how to cope. Now he's just started to get some semblance of normalcy back into his life and then suddenly it all goes wrong again. But this time, is everything just going to fall into place? Unlikely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock (BBC) :’( nothing here is intended to be copyright infringement. All rights go to the BBC and Moffat etc etc.  
A/N : This rating may go up in later chapters, be warned now. Oh and this is not the only chapter before you decide to leave! Please don’t go. All reviews welcome good bad or otherwise, though FYI this is my first story. I will try to remedy any mistakes I make and I accept full responsibility for all errors. Much LOVE <3  
CONTAINS: Suicidal references.

 

John Watson looked into the dark brown eyes of his therapist, Lucy Leech, and thought for the third time this session that the woman must have purchased her degree off of eBay, as what she was saying was unbelievably irrelevant to him. John’s term in Afghanistan hadn’t changed him. Well not that John could see on the brief moments of internal reflection that he indulged in. The only thing that John brought home from his tour of duty was a bullet wound, his Browning, and this damn limp.  
He caught sight of his reflection in the window pane and tried to find evidence of this ‘changed John’ he’d heard so much about.  
Dr John Watson saw a mess of dirty blonde hair; his deep blue eyes; straight nose; the light, thin, pink line of his lips; a strong jaw line – dotted with stubble that he’s forgotten to shave that morning. And then, just for a moment, John saw the lines around his eyes; the deeper creases on his forehead. But the most disturbing thing of all was that his eyes were dead. They showed no emotion, no enthusiasm, nothing.  
“John?”  
He whipped his head around to face the anxious psychologist, noting that she had stretched her hand out towards him. She must have realised that she’s startled him as her cheeks coloured and she retracted her hand with such speed that John wondered how she had managed to stop it hitting her. With the shock of the sudden retrieval from his reflection still coursing through his veins; John tried to reach for his cane. Only to find that it was already in his hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles practically glowed through his skin. With an imperceptible shake of the head at himself, John loosened his grasp and awkwardly stood to leave. He couldn’t stay in this damn room any longer.  
He was very nearly out of the door when a small cough stopped him. John was a hair’s breadth away from rolling his eyes at this woman. Damn, she was persistent.  
“You never did answer my question Dr Watson.”  
He turned with an inquisitive and contrite look on his face. John had honestly just tuned the poor woman out. The mental scolding for incredibly bad manners would come later, as he desperately searched for a clue so he could comply.  
“Your blog, John, your blog.”  
The endearing but slightly chastising tone compelled John to answer rather than just roll his eyes at Lucy. He fingered a hole in his most comfortable beige jumper before replying.  
“You know nothing exciting happens to me.”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John sat bolt upright in bed, the sheets were twisted around him. Listening for what had woken him this time. When he realised that the apartment was silent, he exhaled slowly. Noticing the pain shooting through his knuckles, John glared at the bedside table that he had undoubtedly hit in his sleep.  
“Oh, great deduction John.”  
He sat nursing his hand for a while before recognizing the connotations that came with his words. John squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to remember; not to go back; not to see him go again.  
A small whimper escaped his lips.  
“Sherlock.”  
The tiny whisper, barely louder than a summer breeze, was the catalyst. John saw it all. Back at the very beginning in St Bart’s where his first words were spoken; their first case; the desolation at the pool; the woman. And finally back at the place where it all began. Watching his coat fly out behind him. Except this time it wasn’t when they were running after a murderer. It wasn’t when they chasing cabs through London. It wasn’t when he was stood outside 221B impatiently waiting for John to drink the remnants of his tea. It was when he...  
“NO!”  
John’s eyes were wrenched open as he refused to let that train of thought reach its conclusion. He put his head in his hands only to take them abruptly away when he felt that his cheeks were streaked with tears. He shook himself, trying to rid himself of the depression that he could feel creeping up on him. He disentangled himself from his sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Finding more stability with his feet planted firmly on the floor, John wiped his cheeks with the palm of his hand and stared around the room.  
John had taken to sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, trying to feel that little bit closer to him. He hadn’t touched any of the experiments – although Mrs Hudson did get rid of the ones that started to rot. Apart from that, it was exactly how He had left it. The sheets had long stopped smelling like Sherlock but John couldn’t force himself to return to his own room.  
With a sigh, John forced himself up off the mattress; reaching for his cane, John slowly made his way to the kitchen. He was well overdue for his morning cup of tea.  
oooooooooOooooooooo

John never sat on the sofa anymore. It held too many memories of Him. Instead he sat himself down stiffly into the far less comfortable armchair, which John thought could have vomit stains and it would still improve its appearance. The horrid brown pattern hid the piercing springs which dug into him, keeping his mind in the here and now, for which John was forever grateful. He brought his tea to his lips, sipping the scalding liquid and trying to ignore the pain slicing through his shoulder. Harry had made sure that Mycroft disposed of all of his pain medication when she had stumbled across a lethal collection in the cutlery drawer. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best place to stash them. Just because John didn’t use the kitchen for anything but tea, it didn’t mean that others wouldn’t.  
Sherlock could have thought of a better place.  
John slammed the mug on to the hardwood of the coffee table, smashing the blue china and barely wincing when the hot tea splashed all over his hand.  
As he wiped the scalding liquid off with the sleeve of his jumper he noticed a tremor in his hand. It wasn’t from the cold – he insisted that Mrs Hudson keep the thermostat at 15 degrees, the heat reminded him too much of coming back to the flat after running around freezing London – he’d become used to the chill. His therapist thinks that he is still suffering PTSD from Afghanistan. John hadn’t disclosed Sherlock’s death yet. He couldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone.  
John stands slowly and limps to the wall, the one littered with bullet holes. He traces the pattern of the revolting wallpaper before outlining the yellow smiley face. His fingers dipping in and out of the puncture wounds, causing more plaster to fall out on to the floor. He smiles sadly as he recalls His reasoning behind destroying their property. John could imagine what would happen if He walked in right now...  
“John, what are you doing?”  
“Sherlock?”  
“I’m glad to see that your deducing skills have improved John.”  
“Don’t be sarcastic Sherlock! Where...”  
“Have I been? Long story...”  
“Why?”  
“Your voice is lower John, your eyes are moist, arms crossed in an attempt to protect yourself, what from I’m not sure. Are you upset with me John?” He would have his hands pushed together under his chin as he tried to deduce him. Of course, Sherlock had never been any good with emotions.  
“OF COURSE I’M BLOODY UPSET!”  
“Ah, so I was right.”  
John was startled out of the world; where Sherlock wasn’t dead, where Sherlock was sat on the couch, where there was Sherlock; by a sharp knock on the open door.  
“John?”

 

A/N: Please, please, please review, I need to know if you like it, hate it or something is really annoying you that you want fixed. I will try to update a.s.a.p. <3


	2. Chapter 2

oooooooooOooooooooo

He had so much hope riding on that one word. The deep timbre in the voice that spoke it urged John’s heart to pump harder and all his muscles tensed ready to run at Him.  
The last few months of anger and hurt dissipated at hearing that voice. John turned slowly and came face to face...  
With Mycroft Holmes.  
Mycroft saw all the hope and anticipation crash in John’s face and saw all of his grief flash in those deep blue eyes. The unfathomable anguish that reached right down into John’s essence was glimpsed before the walls were put back up.  
John couldn’t believe his foolishness. Of course it wasn’t Him, He’d died. No amount of wishing or reminiscing was going to bring Him back. It’s just that their voices sound similar, so like each other, that it physically hurt John’s heart just to listen to Mycroft.  
“Mycroft,” John gestures into the flat with his left hand, “come on in, by all means. Cup of tea?”  
The elder Holmes brother, noting the smashed blue china, declined a beverage. Instead he sat on the couch and rested his umbrella on the coffee table; his eyes scanning the room, not unlike how his late brothers used to do so, taking in every tiny detail. But most importantly, the reflection of Sherlock’s best friend in the mirror, hanging above the mantelpiece.  
“How are you feeling, John?”  
John rolled his eyes at the inane line of questioning Mycroft was pursuing. Especially as Dr Watson knew that Mycroft was perfectly aware of how John was coping, owing to the fact that he had yet to remove all the bugs that lay ‘hidden’ around the flat. In fact, John thought, he probably knows how I’m doing better than I myself. When the curt reply was made about John’s general mental stability, Mycroft dutifully ignored it.  
John stole one last glance at the wall before turning to face the elder Holmes. He noted how straight Mycroft was sat upon the sofa and in anyone else John would have said that it was from discomfort. However, having been subjected to Mycroft before, John knew that it was just how he presented himself. It must work well in the British government, to always look as if you have absolute control.  
John limped round, back to his favoured, ugly armchair and eased himself down.  
“What do you want, Mycroft?” his voice sounding tired and weak. He knew exactly why Mycroft had come. It was the same reason every time and yet they still tried to convince each other that it was necessary for these personal visits. He was only here to make sure that John wasn’t planning on throwing himself in front of a cab. (He’d only tried it once, and the cabbie hadn’t even been going fast enough to cause a broken shoulder – though there were some pretty impressive bruises for a while.)  
“I just thought I’d come and see you John, can’t a friend drop in on you anymore?”  
“Mycroft,” John sighed, “why do you continue this charade? I know you’re only here to make sure that I haven’t thought of a new way to kill myself. Out of some sort of misplaced chivalry and concern for your brother, you continually feel the need to keep an eye on me. Isn’t it enough that you have the entire flat wired? I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, I do not need your charity!” John’s voice grew steadily louder and filled with more pent up emotions, whether it was anger or just plain grief Mycroft wasn’t sure. This was the first time that John had properly yelled at him since the day of the funeral when Mycroft tried to get John to leave the flat. But today something inside Dr John Watson had broken. Today was the first day when Doctor John Hamish Watson finally accepted that his best friend wasn’t going to come back.  
Mycroft could see the subtle shift. He could see the acceptance and the melancholy loneliness that it brought. He could see the death of John Watson before his very eyes. Sherlock would never have forgiven him for this. John’s defences suddenly returned as Mycroft was watching him. The despair carefully being hidden behind multiple layers of faked indifference, not dissimilar to Sherlock’s own coping mechanisms.  
“You don’t have to stay now Mycroft. Your duty is fulfilled for the day.”  
The cold dismissive tone in John’s voice shocked Mycroft. It was so different to John’s normal bubbly, if ever sarcastic; delivery that he felt like Dr Watson had slapped him.  
Mycroft Holmes stood abruptly and snatched his umbrella off the table so fast that John only noticed he had it when Mycroft had reached the door. John turned his head away, unable to look him in the face, when he heard, “You aren’t the only one who lost someone, John. Try and remember that.”

oooooooooOooooooooo

“Mrs Hudson?” John shouted as he trudged up the stairs. He paused on the second to last step trying to hear the endearing old woman’s reply. When his ears ascertained that the lovely landlady was in fact out, John continued up into 221B.  
The door swung open on contact. This was unexpected as John had been sure that he’d locked it on the way to work this morning. But his lack of sleep was making anything possible. Yesterday, John had tried to make porridge with Cheerios. Sarah had been working him hard lately, he knew that Mycroft must have had a hand in it, but he didn’t begrudge her. In fact, the later hours meant that he had far more things to occupy his mind. John shook his head at himself, pocketed the keys and walked into the flat.  
His eyes unwillingly flitted over to the violin stand in the corner, as they always did. The only remaining reflex from when there were still two people living here. John sighed before he could stop himself. He claps a hand over his mouth before any other involuntary noises escape.  
It’s been three years, almost to the day – only four days left (John was counting) – since Dr Watson had been left alone, and this year’s anniversary was tipped to go exactly like their predecessors. Blotted out with copious amounts of alcohol, sat on the top of St Bart’s, and debating the positives and negatives of jumping off exactly like He did.  
John limped slowly into the kitchen; his leg playing up more than normal, as it always did this time of year. He reached out for his standby – the kettle, filled it and put it on to boil. He got out a green mug and set about preparing his cuppa. After limping to the fridge and getting out the milk...  
John froze. Still with the milk carton in his hand and the fridge door wide open. He had goose bumps but it wasn’t due to the cold air emanating from the fridge.  
John Watson had never felt like this before, a massive bundle of nerves, not even Afghanistan had elicited such a strong reaction. His whole body was trembling with the generous amount of adrenalin pumping through his veins. John tries to take several deep breaths before bracing himself for the emotional onslaught that was about to come tumbling down.  
John’s right hand slackened its grip on the metal pole and he could feel his stability slipping away. The resounding clash of metal against the tile kitchen floor echoed resonantly through the Doctors head, the pounding in his ears reaching insurmountable decibel levels.  
The 180 degree turn seemed to take an eon to complete, but must have only been a second.  
The deep blue eyes met the silvery, grey ones.  
A small raspy voice snaked out, “John?”  
And that’s when John threw the milk.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock glared wearily at the spreading puddle of milk before turning his infamous eyebrow on John. He lifted a surprisingly steady hand and wiped a drop of semi-skimmed that was threatening to fall off his face.  
John took this moment to study Sherlock. He started at the top and noted that Sherlock’s normally wild, raven black curls were matted against his head in severe knots. John saw traces of dried blood that peeked out from behind his hairline. He saw a vicious green bruise that highlighted his left cheekbone. A jagged scar ran from the bottom of his right ear to his jugular. There were hand shaped marks still imprinted around his neck. The black tee that clung to him, sodden with milk, was littered with holes and rips in the material. Through one of the larger tears John could see more dried blood. Sherlock’s arms were brown with mud and dirt; the doctor shuddered to think what lay beneath the thick layer of grime. The jeans that hung loosely on his hips were also torn and covered with more blood and dirt. Sherlock stood with his weight on his left foot; leading John to assume that there was more damage under the denim.  
In the process of John’s appraisal Sherlock began shivering violently, and some protective instinct stirred the doctor into action. Without a word John pulled the consulting detective into the bathroom and began running a warm bath. Turning back to Sherlock he picked up a towel that had been resting on the radiator and slung the fluffy material around the taller mans shoulders. John pulled him closer to the radiator and sat him carefully on the floor. He could feel the tremors that rocketed through Sherlock and swiftly turned the hot water tap up higher.  
John crossed back over to the shuddering man, gently extending his hand so that it rested solidly on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“Sherlock?” John said softly, crouching to be in the detective’s eye line. “Do you think that you’re able to undress yourself?”  
There was a hesitant pause where John could see Sherlock’s searching gaze, though what he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. The silvery grey eyes seemed to flinch before a slight shake of the head affirmed the doctor’s suspicions that Sherlock was in far too much pain for one man.  
“Okay then,” John said, still using a soothing tone. “I need to get you to stand up now, and I’m going to get you cleaned up.”  
“But, it’ll hurt John.”  
The murmured whimper was so quiet it almost escaped Johns notice. He smiled comfortingly at Sherlock’s weakness.  
“Do you really think I’d hurt you Sherlock?” he asked, “Besides, it would go against my Hippocratic oath.”  
The slight sarcastic tone in John’s voice brought a tiny smile to Sherlock’s face, barely a flicker of the lips. But in that moment, there in the most fleeting of smiles, there lay their entire friendship. John saw it all, reflected in the younger man’s face, the high standard in which he held John, the amazement at the fact that John was still here. But most importantly, the trust that the consulting detective had in him.  
John took hold of the frail fingers that still shook violently under the towel, and slowly pulled Sherlock to his feet. The warm shroud slipped off of his angular shoulders as the great detective rose to unsteady feet; their eyes never looking away from each other, both transfixed by the sudden pain that lanced through the irises. One’s physical, the other’s emotional.  
John stepped backwards suddenly. The need for space from his best friend flaring up unexpectedly. The hurt shimmered in the silvery grey eyes of the consulting detective before he turned his head away to hide the tears that had caught him off guard.  
The doctor mentally shook himself, before returning swiftly to Sherlock’s side. This wasn’t the time to go down the dark road that Sherlock had left when he...  
“Sherlock?”  
The younger man whipped his head around at the sound of his name. There was still hurt glistening in sparkling eyes, but the majority was severe physical pain. The expression of resilience and determination melted whatever qualms the doctor may have been harbouring. John began to peel the still damp t-shirt from Sherlock’s back; wincing whenever he saw Sherlock cringe away from the movement. Finally, John managed to man handle the rotten garment over his friends head and threw it into the corner of the room, ready to be put in the bin as soon as Sherlock was clean.  
When the doctor swivelled around to face Sherlock again, he blanched in horror. Every single one of the consulting detective’s ribs was visible; they stuck out in sickening peaks and troughs. The beastly sight was made worse by the ragged scars and bruises that littered the alabaster skin. Sherlock must have suffered unspeakable atrocities. Unconsciously, John’s feather light touch traced the worst scar; a long winding river of dark red that ran all the way from his left hip to halfway up Sherlock’s right ribcage. The stomach muscles of the detective tensed under the gentle probing and his breathing became shallower, the grey eyes following every movement that John made.  
“Oh, Sherlock.” The soft tones in John’s voice didn’t shock the detective; the compassionate man would never be able to stop himself caring about his friends, or anyone that was hurt. That was what made him such a great physician. But this time, Sherlock could detect an undercurrent of emotion that was plaguing the doctor’s words. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the specific emotion, which irritated him. Before he ‘left’ Sherlock wouldn’t be afraid to ask John what he meant by that. But now, with all of the history, Sherlock was surprisingly reluctant to voice any questions he may have that highlighted his emotional negligence. Any further contemplation on John’s vocal mystery was put to a close when the denim on his jeans was pulled away from the gash that so far, Sherlock had been able to disguise.  
“Shit!” Sherlock hissed, “Jesus, John that hurts! You said you wouldn’t hurt me!”  
Sherlock had put all of the confusion and residual sorrow into the words he flung at John. And he immediately regretted it when John physically winced.  
“I know Sherlock, I know. I’m sorry.”  
“Just pull them off in one go. Just do it.”  
“Sherlock, I’m not sure that’s a good...”  
“Do it. Now.”  
The cries of pain were almost too much for John to bear. But when they subsided into soft moans and whimpers, John examined the deep gash that was close to the top of Sherlock’s right leg. It didn’t appear to be infected, which was a relief. It meant that they didn’t have to go to the hospital. John could probably fix it with the medical kit he still had at the flat, back from when they were both chasing mad men around London. The scab that had formed over the wound was going to peel off in the bath, John could see that much. Given the fact that the gash was so deep, John assumed that it had been done with a large kitchen knife and shuddered at the thought of Sherlock being subjected to...  
“John?”  
He jerked his head up from staring at Sherlock’s leg. Wondering what Sherlock wanted now.  
“Umm, if you don’t mind...”  
Comprehension dawned. A slight flush crept along John’s neck.  
“Uh. Yeah. Sure. Shall I step outside, or...?”  
Sherlock nodded, easing John’s embarrassment slightly. He smiled tenderly at the doctor as he turned away, his back now facing John. He heard the shocked intake of breath, and realised that no matter how thorough John had been, Sherlock had never shown John his back. He shuddered at the thought of what Doctor Watson must be looking at, the lash marks that besieged his back. Goosebumps appeared over his skin as he recalled the pain that was inflicted.  
“Call me if you need anything.”  
The hushed sound of the bathroom door closing let Sherlock know that he was alone. Again. He used to revel in the thought of doing things single-handedly. He even used to shun John, just so that he could be unaccompanied by the monotony that was the regular human being. But he found himself longing for John to come back. To burst through the open door and tell him more stupid and irrelevant stories. To fill the tiny bathroom with his voice and presence. But the door stayed shut.  
Sherlock sighed. He stepped slowly into the bath, moaning as the hot water washed over his skin. It had been so long since he had the luxury of hot water. He would never take it for granted again. He slowly slid his languid body into the deep bathwater; taking care not to majorly disturb any injuries or knock any bruises.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. This is where he belongs. Back with John in 221B.

oooooooooOooooooooo

John was sat in his armchair, clasping a cup of tea in his iron grip. It had long gone cold and John had absolutely no idea why he was still clutching it. His thoughts roiled in his head. All of them clambering over one another in an effort to be heard. There were far too many questions that John needed to have answered. Far too many things that John needed to be told.  
“AAAAARRRGGGHHHH!”  
The shriek startled John out of his reverie. He dropped the mug of stone cold tea on to the floor as he clambered to his feet. He dashed to the bathroom door. Pounding the wood so hard he was amazed that it didn’t crumble beneath his fist.  
“Sherlock? Sherlock answer me!”  
A groan came from inside the bathroom.  
“Sherlock, I’m coming in.”  
The door flew open and John was met with a gangly detective sprawled over the tiled floor struggling to cover himself with a towel that had fallen with him.  
“Just give me a second, John, would you?”  
“Oh shut up Sherlock. You haven’t got anything that I haven’t seen before.”  
“But I thought you were straight?”  
“What? I’m a doctor Sherlock! Christ, get your mind out of the gutter!”  
Giggling at the detective’s ridiculous line of thought, John helped his friend to his feet and secured the towel around his waist.  
“What happened?”  
“Well, I think that the towel was further than I thought and I overbalanced.”  
“Only you Sherlock.”  
“Only I what?”  
John just rolled his eyes at his friend. He pulled him out of the bathroom, gently leading him to his old room.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stood frozen at the entrance to his old room. There was something that kept him from crossing the threshold, but whatever it was; it wasn’t immediately obvious to him.  
The room was remarkably similar to how he had left it; still strewn with half finished experiments, the same sheets covering the bed, even some of his old shirts peeking out of the wardrobe. But the consulting detective found himself searching for the difference that had glued his feet to the floor.  
He watched John rush around the room, rustling up various items that Sherlock had forgotten about. A light blue blanket was flung on to the bed, followed swiftly by a dark jumper, jeans, Sherlock’s favourite button down shirt, and underwear. The first aid kit was put on the bedside table and the lamp was switched on, casting an orange glow over the room. Doctor Watson then drew the curtains, shutting out what little light had filtered through the grey clouds that hung over London today.  
John turned back to the consulting detective and frowned when he saw that Sherlock hadn’t moved.  
“You okay?”  
Sherlock stared at his flatmate. He cocked his head to the side, as he did only when contemplating John. He watched as he became steadily more confused about what he was doing.  
“Sherlock, are you coming in or are you just going to stand there and freeze to death?”  
The doctor was right; the water dripping off strands of his hair had long ago lost their heat and was causing him to shiver again. The warmth that the bath had given his skin was leaving him. Standing there in a towel certainly wasn’t helping matters.  
Sherlock forced his feet to move him further into the room. Come on Sherlock, it’s just John’s room.  
The mental slip was the trigger. Sherlock could see exactly what had been holding him back.  
It was John’s room.  
John had obviously moved in here while Sherlock was ‘away’. The bedside table had various novels and medical journals upon it. The bed had John’s pyjamas laid just underneath the pillow. But above all, the room smelt of him. A rich, earthy scent that was still so familiar and comforting to Sherlock. The fact that all of these signs had escaped Sherlock’s earlier observations was worrying. So much so, in fact, that the younger man’s knees buckled below him.  
John watched it all happen. The frown on Sherlock’s face right before the lanky frame of his flatmate began to crumple. John’s lightning reflexes stopped Sherlock from hitting the floor, but only just. He managed to partly drag and shove the limp consulting detective to the large double bed in the centre of the room before his arms gave out.  
“You’re heavier than you look, Holmes,” John grumbled quietly. But there was no maliciousness in his voice, only concern.  
“Well you’re not the lightest person on the planet either.” Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, but still bearing a lot of his weight on his hands. “I’m sorry John.”  
“About what?”  
The sudden influx of reasons for Sherlock to say sorry overwhelmed both men’s minds. I’m sorry for not trusting you enough. I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I’m sorry for making you watch. I’m sorry that you lost your best friend. I’m sorry that I didn’t let you know I was alive. I’m sorry that you have to look after me now, even though you must hate me completely.  
“For collapsing on you.”  
“Oh. That’s fine Sherlock. I’ll go and get you a glass of water and some pain medication. Then I can start patching you up. Okay?”  
Sherlock nodded, he was simply too exhausted to do anything else. Apparently having milk thrown at you is a tiring experience.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John walked back into the room to find Sherlock sprawled back on the bed, snoring lightly, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath that he took. The younger man’s face was so much more relaxed when he was sleeping; the lines that John thought were etched permanently on his face had disappeared and smooth skin replaced them. He looks so innocent, John thought, like he wouldn’t hurt a fly.  
With that thought, Doctor Watson placed the glass of water on the bedside table with the pain pills, picked up the blue blanket and spread it over his sleeping friend. When John was satisfied that Sherlock wouldn’t get cold, the light was switched off and the consulting detective left in peace to sleep.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
The puddle of milk stared up at John as he walked into the kitchen. The sigh that followed was more exasperated than the doctor had expected. With a shake of his head, John jumped lithely over the pool and set about finding something to clean the mess up with. Locating some old, ragged dishcloth, John knelt down and started mopping up the fruit of his anger.  
The manual work was refreshing; it kept his mind off of the horrendous injuries that John had seen peppering Sherlock’s skin. Soaking up the milk had some form of therapeutic qualities that Doctor Watson was incredibly grateful for, and he spent much longer than necessary making sure that he had cleaned every last drop.  
When that task was finished the older man sat himself down in his signature armchair, out of habit more than actual need. The lack of entertainment allowed his mind to wander.  
Sherlock’s back now, things are going to change massively, aren’t they? But I don’t think that it’ll be the same again. The lash marks are the worst. The pain must have been unbearable. Sherlock’s stronger than I thought... Well if he’s that strong why didn’t he stay with me, instead of jumping off that god damn building? Why didn’t he trust me enough? Did I miss the fact that he was suicidal? Oh GOD! Was I such a bad friend that I didn’t notice the signs? Sweet baby Jesus I hope not. Why did he leave me? He must have known how much he meant to me. I shot someone for him, for Christ’s sake! Where has he been for the past three years? THREE YEARS YOU UTTER BASTARD! I HATE YOU! I can’t hate you. There must be a reason, Sherlock, tell me that there is a reason behind all of this. How did you manage it? I was there, I felt your pulse, and I saw your head, broken on the pavement... Oh God Sherlock. Why? Why? Why?  
A noise from downstairs startled John from his reverie. He sat still for a moment, waiting to hear more, but no other sounds came from the hallway. It must be Mrs Hudson.  
“Shit, Mrs Hudson! She doesn’t know! I have to tell her!” John’s exclamations rang out through the flat. The stiffness in his leg told John that he had been sat still for a while. He shuffled as quickly as possible to their front door.  
“MRS HUDSON!” John bellowed out his landlady’s name, hoping that this would stir her into action, as well as awakening Sherlock.  
The sound of the older woman scrambling to open her front door was comforting. It was flung open and Mrs Hudson scurried to the bottom of the stairs in haste, to find out what had made the normally mild-mannered doctor scream.  
“John? What the devil is going on here?”  
“You have to see this.”


	5. Chapter 5

John sat heavily down on the sheets. They were still warm from where Sherlock had been sleeping, only moments ago.  
“You knew?”  
The hushed voice, filled with agony, cut Sherlock right to the core. He looked to his left and saw that Mrs Hudson had an expression that must have rivalled his own. Guilt was in abundance across her face, her eyes tearing up at the sound of Doctor Watson’s anguish.  
Their landlady managed to stammer out some sort of response. “Y-Yes, John, I knew. Oh, I am so s-sorry to have kept it from you. I would have told you, but Sherlock said it wasn’t s-safe and...”  
“YOU KNEW! YOU SAT THERE WITH ME, WHEN I WAS CRYING MY EYES OUT! YOU WERE THERE WHEN I SAT ON THE TOP OF ST. BART’S DRINKING AWAY THE PAIN! YOU WERE THERE WHEN I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF, JUST SO I DIDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH LOSING HIM! AND YOU COULDN’T FIND IT IN YOUR HEART TO JUST FUCKING TELL ME!”  
Sherlock had never seen his friend this angry before. He might not even be your friend anymore, you abandoned him remember? He must hate you. The consulting detective refused to let his brain continue down that road. He definitely did not want to think about what would happen if John rejected him. But John must care for me? He got me clean and made sure that I would be okay. Even after I gave him the shock of his life.  
“John, Mrs Hudson only knew because she saw me with Mycroft.”  
“MYCROFT KNEW?!”  
Shit.  
“Mycroft had to know, how else was I going to get permission to kill the majority of Moriarty’s men? I needed the money and enough influence to make sure that I wouldn’t get flung into the nearest jail cell, along with all the other people I put there.”  
“Am I the last to know?” the hurt whisper fell out of John’s mouth before he had the chance to stop it. He winced, as if Sherlock had already delivered the answer that the doctor knew would follow.  
“Yes.”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
“He’ll come around Sherlock, he just needs time.”  
Mrs Hudson’s words were of little comfort to Sherlock. All he really wanted to do was to get her out of the flat and make it up to John. He had an incredibly uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach; that he knew was all due to the doctor. His emotions; that normally went unacknowledged, decided that today, of all days, was the time to make an abrupt reappearance. What happens if John doesn’t ‘come around’? What do I do then? Oh God, this wasn’t how today was meant to go.  
“Mrs Hudson, can I have a cup of tea?”  
The smaller woman raised her eyebrow at Sherlock.  
“Please.”  
Mrs Hudson scurried off into the kitchen to make Sherlock what he wanted, but reminding him over her shoulder, that she wasn’t his housekeeper. The normalcy of the chastisement almost brought a smile to the consulting detectives face.  
Sherlock moved further into the living room and sat himself down on the sofa heavily. John I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything to make this up to you.  
He could hear a small noise emanating from his old room. It was a noise that Sherlock had heard a lot of recently, but still couldn’t quite pinpoint what the sound was. He cocked his head to the left, straining to hear the odd noise over the racket Mrs Hudson was making in the kitchen. There was a swift break in between the sounds, almost as if they were catching their breath...  
He’s crying.  
The realisation hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks. He visibly paled at the thought of what he had reduced the previous John Watson to; the doctor that he knew, rarely cried, and was always strong. But this version, cried after only a small piece of upsetting news. The emotions roiling through Sherlock confused him so much, that he considered ‘deleting’ the entire experience. But something stopped him. I need to go through this with John.  
The consulting detective was up and out of his chair before he could change his mind. He burst through the door of the bedroom, slightly breathless as he stood before a cowering John Watson.   
“What are you...?”  
John was cut off by a rather gangly detective, who had flung his arms around the smaller army doctor, in a bone-crushing hug. John sat there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Sherlock had never willingly hugged him before, and even the ones that he had insisted on, the detective had not responded. John also didn’t want to touch any of the open wounds that still covered Sherlock’s back. He settled with putting his hands on the tops of the detective’s shoulders. This was completely new territory for the both of them. The tears that had been pouring down John’s cheeks only seconds before, dried up, as if Sherlock was his own emotional balm. The consulting detective had managed to calm John down with one motion, what would have taken John hours to do alone. God, I’ve missed him so much. But what is he trying to do? Kill me?  
“Sherlock...”  
“Yes?”  
“You’re kind of strangling me here.”  
Almost reluctantly Sherlock pulled away from his flatmate. He gauged John’s expression for signs of repulsion and disgust but found nothing but resigned weariness.  
“Sherlock, I am just going to need a little space. I mean, it’s great you’re back, but I think that, umm, we need to just, umm, take the time to get back to how we were. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Just not today.” John’s tone was almost apologetic, which Sherlock found ridiculous. If anyone should be apologising, it should be me, Sherlock thought, wait – what? I never apologise... about anything...  
“I... Understand John. Shall I get my things?”  
The look of confusion on John’s face was a welcome relief from the indecision and pain that had been there only seconds before. Sherlock wondered at how easily his mood changed when it came to the army doctor. It could be an interesting experi....  
“Your things? Why? Where are you going?” John’s questions interrupted his train of thought.  
“Well, you are obviously living in here now, so I was thinking that I would stay in your old room. I don’t mind. Honestly.” And the strange thing was, the consulting detective really didn’t mind. That way he thought that he could get some space from John, and still be with him at the same time. I could lie in his bed and breathe in that heavenly smell... WAIT! Where the fuck did that come from?  
John noted Sherlock’s sudden change in expression, and took it to mean that the younger man had changed his mind, but didn’t want to seem cruel by rescinding his offer. Not for a second did it cross his mind that his flatmate was currently having a sexual nightmare.  
“It’s okay Sherlock; you can sleep in your room. After all, I was only meant to be crashing in here until I got over your... You know what, never mind.” John made a move to get up off the bed, but Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder forced him back on to the duvet. “Sherlock, I can’t leave if you won’t let me go.”  
“Maybe I don’t want you to leave.” Shit! Shit! Shit! That wasn’t meant to come out! God! Crap! Bugger! A complete case of brain to mouth malfunction.  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
“John, stay here... I’ll, umm, sleep upstairs. We can, umm, talk more tomorrow. Yes, umm, tomorrow. I’ll, err, just, umm, go.”  
The speed at which Sherlock left was impressive to say the least. All John saw was a whirl of the towel that Sherlock still hadn’t removed.  
“What the hell did that mean, Sherlock?” he asked aloud. The confusion surrounding his flatmate rocketed up to a new level. Maybe I don’t want you to leave. Christ what a mess. John flopped back down on to the mattress with an exasperated sigh. If one thing’s certain, I’m pretty sure normalcy won’t feature in my life ever again. Shame really, I had just become used to not running after murderers.  
The room began to feel empty and cold without Sherlock Holmes in it. John curled up in on himself, trying not to search out company. What sort of man are you Watson? If you can handle Afghanistan you can handle a night by yourself. God knows, you’ve had your fair share of those. But no matter how many times John tried to convince himself that he didn’t need anyone else, he still found himself longing for the company of a certain consulting detective.  
It’s just because of the separation. I mean, he came back from the fucking dead! It’s perfectly rational that I would want to spend time with him. And I need to make sure that his wounds don’t get worse. John’s excuses for feeling like this were getting worse and worse as the night dragged on. He pushed his fingernails into the palms of his hands, trying to get himself distracted from the intriguing words that had fallen from the detectives mouth, ‘Maybe I don’t want you to leave’.  
“Fucks sake!”  
John decided it wasn’t worth tormenting himself any longer. Assuming that Sherlock hadn’t changed his sleeping habits in the past three years, the doctor stormed out of his room to confront him. He strode down the hall, past a full cup of tea that had been left on the kitchen table, he assumed belonged to Sherlock and up the thirteen steps to his old room.  
Faced with the door that his best friend was undoubtedly sat behind, John raised a fully clenched fist, ready to pound on the entrance and demand that Sherlock let him in. His knuckles were millimetres away from the wood when John’s entire hand relaxed. He stopped his hand just before it had touched the door, hovering unexpectedly. John stared at the uncooperative hand, wondering why it refused to knock.


	6. Chapter 6

Increased heart rate, increased breathing rate, flushed cheeks, no doubt my pupils have dilated. All signs of attraction, almost text-book perfect. Interesting. I wonder if John has ever experienced this about someone unexpected. John is unexpected. Definitely not the person I expected to feel like this for. I wonder if everyone feels like this? I’ll have to ask John... Oh, no. Maybe not John. God, I can’t focus like this. John would know what to do, how to handle this. Emotions confuse me. I don’t like being confused, it’s almost worse than being bored. God, I was bored. Bored without John. John... STOP IT! You need to delete this. You can’t let John keep distracting you. These feelings are irrelevant. Delete them Sherlock Holmes! DELETE!  
Sherlock sat bolt upright in John’s bed. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes, trying as hard as possible to delete the past twenty four hours. His thumbs rotated on his temples, mentally shoving the emotions to the bin placed in the corner of his mind palace. A small noise outside the door interrupted his clearing process. Sherlock was up in a flash; rushing to the wall, just to the right of the door, his hand pre-emptively curling into a fist. Who was at the door, and why they would be a threat, the detective wasn’t sure. But I’m sure as hell not letting them hurt me.  
There was heavy panting just behind the door, before it deteriorated into a small sigh. The exhalation of breath was familiar to Sherlock. John?  
“John?” The detective opened up the bedroom door that was separating them, to find the army doctor with his arm raised with an open palm turned towards him.  
The older man, looked incredibly shocked, and was staring at the younger man with wide eyes. They stood there, simply staring, frozen in a perfect moment when neither could hide their feelings, but still couldn’t see the truth in the other’s eyes.  
Almost simultaneously, the protective walls slammed up around the two men, blocking off any emotional attachments that had been blossoming, neither wanted to confront those demons just yet.  
“Umm... I just wanted to make sure that you’re alright. And that you’re not cold. Or hungry. Do you want me to make you something to eat? Or do you just want to sleep...?”  
“John, you’re babbling.” A slight flush crept up the side of John’s neck. “But I would very much appreciate some toast and...”  
“Yes?” When Sherlock shook his head, John pressed more. “What is it?”  
“Could I borrow one of your winter jumpers? It’s just that it’s quite cold...”  
“Sure. Come downstairs and then I can get a better look at your injuries. You fell asleep last time, and I feel awful at not fixing you up.”  
Sherlock nodded in agreement and together they headed down the stairs. John heard the sharp hiss every time the consulting detective stepped on his right foot, and the doctor winced with every small gasp. Halfway down the stairs the younger man clamped a hand on to the army doctor’s shoulder, John immediately froze, tensed ready to whirl into action at the tiniest movement.  
“You’d have thought that I would remember not to stub my toe on the stair, wouldn’t you? But apparently not.” The sarcastic tone in his friend’s voice immediately alleviated the tension, and John snorted at Sherlock’s newfound clumsiness.  
“Come on you muppet, try not to kill yourself...” Oh shit. Why did I say that! He did try to kill himself. John squeezed his eyes shut at the inane stupidity he appeared to be displaying in the presence of his flatmate.  
“Tried it once, don’t want to do it again. It’ll be boring.” The deep baritone voice calmed John’s rising panic and he snorted once more at Sherlock.  
“Let’s get you patched up first, and then I won’t have to worry so much about you doing more damage.” John had missed this, the gentle chastisement of the indescribable detective. Though he had been sure that the constant worrying was something that John hadn’t missed about Sherlock, he found himself sinking gratefully into the mothering role.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
“SHIT!”  
Crumbs sprayed all over John as Sherlock decided to scream the expletive immediately after taking the first bite of his toast. The doctor looked up at the detective with raised eyebrows, Sherlock knew that he was cleaning the wound, the antiseptic wipes always stung, and John had warned him not to eat whilst he was tending to the gash. But as ever, Sherlock decided not to listen to John, deeming that he was the better judge of what he could or couldn’t handle.  
“Sherlock, you knew I was gonna start cleaning you up. So why the fuck did you decide that it would be a good idea to start eating?” John brushed stray pieces of toast from the blonde strands of his hair and flicked a few more off of the sleeves of his jumper. He dropped back on to his heels and probed gently at the cut. He reached up to the kitchen table, pulled the medical kit on to the floor next to Sherlock’s right ankle and dug into it, trying to find the needle and thread.  
“Oh, do you have to stitch it up? I hate stitches, they’re so itchy,” whined the detective, his voiced bordering on pleading.  
“Yes, sorry Sherlock, but it has to be done. I’ll probably only leave them in for a few days, as it’s already started healing. But it does need a little help.” John explained.  
The detective turned his head away in disgust, with a small sniff of resignation. He continued to eat his toast, pausing in between bites to flinch whenever John tugged too hard on the thread.  
“Done. Okay, can you turn around on the chair and straddle it backwards; I want to look at the lashes on your back.” Sherlock did as he was asked; he moved slowly as not to aggravate the new stitches on his leg.  
John flinched again at the sight of the detectives marred alabaster skin. “I’m going to clean these with the antiseptic wipe. But, luckily, I don’t think you need any stitches in these. They’re not as deep, just covered with dirt.” John slowly began cleaning the first line of blood from Sherlock’s back; his face was a picture of unfaltering resolve. He methodically wiped the wicked criss-cross pattern of whip lashes until the doctor was satisfied that it was perfectly clean.  
“I am going to put a bandage around you Sherlock, then you won’t get these dirty again.”  
Sherlock grunted in reply, he was physically unable to make any other sound as he had stuffed the remainder of the toast in his mouth to stop himself from crying out when the touch of the cleansing wipe had touched his sensitive skin.  
The doctor started to wrap the bandage all the way around Sherlock’s torso, both men intensely aware of how John’s arms brushed the detective’s skin. Luckily their mutual discomfort was ended swiftly as John had made short work of the basic bandaging.  
“Okay, you’re done. Do you want anything else to eat?”  
The detective eased himself off the chair, using the back of it to support himself as he tenderly tried to put some weight on to his right leg. “No thank you, I just want to sleep.” The second half of the sentence was slightly muffled as Sherlock attempted to pull John’s warmest jumper over his head, to finally stop his skin breaking out into goose bumps.  
Sherlock had just eased his head through the neckline of the beige monstrosity when John began to double over in silent peals of laughter. What the...? What could possibly be so funny? Is it..? Oh. The detective looked down at his long frame to find that the sleeves of the pullover ended about three quarters down his arms, but billowed out around his waist. That coupled with the fact that Sherlock was yet to rid himself of the towel, he assumed that he must look quite a sight. Sherlock glanced up at John who had tears running down his face, but was desperately trying to control his giggles.  
“You... you... look... so... so... utterly ridiculous... I can’t... breathe...” John wheezed.  
“Glad I can entertain you.” Sherlock muttered, before he endeavoured to stalk out of the room in his normal flamboyant style. He managed two steps when the right leg protested so loudly that he nearly fell. Tears sprung to his eyes. Fuck! Don’t walk like that!  
John sobered immediately and rushed to Sherlock’s side, grasping his hand and helping to remain upright. The detective was leaning heavily on John’s injured shoulder, but instead of feeling the normal flash of pain, John’s shoulder was deceptively quiet.  
“Come on Sherlock. Let’s get you to bed...”  
“Thank you.”  
“You do realise that I am going to have to take a photo of you in my jumper, right?”  
“Not in this lifetime, John, not in this lifetime.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was bored. Not the usual form of boredom, but he was bored all the same. John and Mycroft hadn’t let him out of the flat for two weeks. It was the only thing the pair had agreed on since Sherlock’s return. The detective smiled as he replayed their first encounter...  
There was a sharp rap at the door. John peered over his newspaper before sighing and heaving himself out of the armchair. I think I had been composing some music, though John was refusing to let me play, headaches are not cured by ‘screeching violins’, apparently. I watched as he plodded to the door and pulled it open.  
“Ah, John! How are you?” my brother’s voice washing over me. I hadn’t heard him properly for years, only brief phone calls, and they weren’t nearly as much fun as seeing the cake-swallower in person. He sounded like he had just spent a few hours ranting at Anthea about something. Probably me. Or Mother. I turned around from the window just in time to see John’s arm lash forward. I heard rather than saw the semi-satisfying sound of knuckles on flesh.  
John’s face was a mixture of pain, pleasure and disgust; luckily not directed at me this time. He shook his arm and rubbed at his knuckles gently, soothing them after the blow.  
“You know what Mycroft, I feel a lot better now.” And with that, John stalked off into his bedroom, surreptitiously trying to sneak a glance at my reaction; though why he would be bothered, I’m not sure. I suppose he needed reassurance that I wasn’t going to yell at him for punching my brother. If anything I felt an overwhelming sense of jealousy. I’d wanted to punch Mycroft for years.  
A soft groan directed my attention away from my still fuming flatmate. Mycroft had crawled on to the sofa with his hand cupping his cheek. I had never seen my brother looking quite so dishevelled. What was left of his hair was rumpled; his shirt had blood stains, and his ever perpetually present umbrella was unleashed from its bindings.  
“Get me some ice, Sherlock.”  
“No. You know where the freezer is.”  
“Get me the ice.”  
“Nope.”  
“SHERLOCK!”  
Mycroft had been wary around John ever since. I think he underestimated the army doctor’s right hook.  
Sherlock launched himself up from where he had been laying on the sofa, and started pacing around the flat. John had left about an hour ago; he had gone to the shop for ‘vital supplies’. Though what was so important about biscuits and jam, Sherlock would never know.  
“BORED!” The detective roared the word, saying it like it was an expletive. He started muttering about how Lestrade should have sorted out the stack of cold case files, and that John should at least taken him out to the park, just so he could do some simple deducing. There’s no fun in deducing things around the flat, they’re so BORING! Oh sorry skull...  
After pacing around the flat several more times, Sherlock decided that he wasn’t going to wait for John any longer. Grinning like a maniac, the detective whirled around the stairs, abruptly coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.  
“Going somewhere?”  
Sherlock groaned. Damn it, John!  
“Please let me go outside! Please!”  
“Nope, not until Lestrade and your bastard of a brother give the all clear. Besides, if you were going outside, don’t you think it would be a good idea to put some clothes on?” John sniggered at the detectives crestfallen face, as he realised that John might actually have a point, as he was still in his blue silk dressing gown and pyjamas. “Oh, and as you’re going straight back upstairs, you can help take in the shopping.”  
Sherlock groaned again, making sure that his displeasure was clear. He snatched the bags from John and stormed back upstairs. When he reached the kitchen he slammed the bags on the side.  
“There were eggs in there!”  
“’Were’ being the operative word in that sentence, John. You should have thought about that before you forced me back inside.” Sherlock huffed, before resuming his normal position on the sofa, though he did guiltily check that John wasn’t truly angry. When he ascertained that John was more amused than cross, he laced his fingers under his chin and began his most favourite activity in the world.  
Deducing John.  
“So, was she pretty?”  
“Huh?” The articulate reply came from the hidden depths of the fridge.  
“Was. She. Pretty?”  
John waltzed slowly to the entrance to the sitting room and leant against the doorframe. “Go on.”  
“What?”  
“I know you’re dying to tell me exactly how you knew.”  
“You know, you take the fun out of it, when you invite the deduction. I keep you around for the obligatory ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’. But if you’re not going to play ball, I shall simply try and repeat the sulphuric acid experiment.”  
John’s eyes widened in terror, that experiment had left the flat reeking for weeks. “Sorry, let me remedy my original statement.” He coughed, before beginning again. “How did you know that?” There was only a small trace of sarcasm hidden in John’s voice, but the detective let it slide.  
“Well, firstly I saw the hair on your jumper; far too dark to be one of yours and far too long to be one of mine. Next it was the red wine and steaks that you had in the carrier bags; you only buy red wine when you’re expecting company and steaks to make you appear more masculine – that doesn’t work by the way. And you have pushed your sleeves of your jumper up to your elbows, exposing more skin in order to show that you are tougher than the average male. Again that doesn’t work; the entire fact that you are wearing a jumper contradicts the display. Finally, you have put your phone into your back pocket, which is different to normal, you only put it in the back pocket after talking to women, I think it’s some sort of mating ritual to show off your muscular chest.”  
“Amazing.” This time, John was legitimately impressed with the detective’s skills. Sherlock grinned at the praise and closed his eyes in satisfaction.  
“So, was she pretty?”  
“I didn’t really think that this was your area, Sherlock. But yes, since you insist on asking, she’s pretty. And she’s a primary school teacher.”  
Sherlock felt something akin to disappointment at the doctor’s words. The fleeting emotion was only there for a moment, it was almost gone too quickly for Sherlock to grasp it. But he held on to it with two hands, before realising what the feeling was. His eyes flashed with shock before pulling the walls up again.  
John, being uncannily attentive, noticed the fleeting look, but he interpreted it as shock that John could get the number of a good-looking woman. He narrowed his blue eyes at Sherlock, who was now horizontal on their sofa, and returned to putting away the shopping.  
“John?”  
“What now Sherlock?”  
“Did you get any jam?”  
...  
“Oh fuck it!”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
Lestrade was just putting the final cases in a large cardboard box when there was a knock on his office door. He whirled around, ready to yell at the person who had disturbed him this time. I specifically told Donovan not to let anyone in!  
“Lestrade, have you finished with that box yet? I don’t think that I can make him wait any longer. God knows that I can’t. He blew up the toaster, again.”  
The familiar voice immediately calmed the Detective Inspector. He shot John a weary smile, “He must be driving you nuts, and being cooped up in the flat must be a nightmare for him.”  
“That is probably one of the biggest understatements I’ve ever heard. We’ve gone through five toasters and two microwaves in the past three weeks. I’m sick of all the damn experiments mucking up my kitchen!” John shook his head at the memory of some of the wilder experiments Sherlock had been insisting on recently.  
“Luckily for you, I’ve just finished putting together a whole stack of the toughest cold case files we had.” Greg smiled at the look of relief that crossed the man’s face. John definitely looks a lot happier; I’ve missed all the sarcastic remarks about Sherlock. He looks almost whole again, now that he’s back. I could never have made things any better. I never expected to but... I hope that John can find it in his heart to forgive Sherlock for leaving. God knows if he has forgiven me for my part in it.  
“So has he told you anything yet?”  
The Detective Inspector regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. John’s entire demeanour became wary and distant. The face of the depressed John Watson returned, the hurt in his eyes clearly visible.  
“No. I haven’t asked. I can’t... I just...” The army doctor trailed off, unable to voice the desolation that hid just behind the heart.  
“I’m sorry John. I shouldn’t have said anything.”  
John nodded at Lestrade’s apology, ran his hands through his hair, in an attempt to shake off the dejected feeling. He held out his hands for the box, all of a sudden wanting nothing more than to get out of the Yard. Lestrade complied, feeling John’s need to escape the horrid atmosphere that had blossomed suddenly.  
“Thanks, Lestrade. It’ll mean a lot to him.” And with that, John Watson walked out of the office.  
The D.I. watched the back of the infamous army doctor retreat down the hall, worrying about how broken John really was. Out of sight, behind the joyful exterior, Lestrade had seen the desolation that lurked there.  
He feared that it would never leave.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock let out an embarrassingly loud yelp when he saw the box cradled in the doctor’s hands. CASES! Oh Lestrade, you beautiful man! He bounded over to the door, ignoring the slight twinge of pain from his back, and snatched the treasure trove of boredom relievers from John’s outstretched arms. The cardboard box was surprisingly heavy, laden with all the cold cases that the Detective Inspector couldn’t solve while Sherlock was ‘away’. He scoffed at the incompetence of the police force once again and curled up on the sofa.  
When the first case file was pulled out of the box Sherlock let out a resounding sigh of relief. His eyes dissecting the entire case within seconds, squinting at the slightly inadequate photo’s that had been taken of the crime scene. Anderson’s work, no doubt. Why he’s still working cases, I have no idea. God, this case is simple, I’m surprised that the police couldn’t solve this, it’s blindingly obvious. The step-brother is the culprit.  
“John! Phone!”  
The requested item came hurtling towards the detective with very little warning. In fact, the throw was almost violent. Luckily Sherlock managed to deftly catch it before it crashed into his face. His eyes jerked to John, who had his back turned to Sherlock, his shoulders were tense and his hands clenched at his sides. Well there’s nothing in the kitchen that would have aggravated him, I cleaned the last experiment up! Something happened at the Yard perhaps. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson..? Which one? Wouldn’t be Anderson, John told me he hadn’t said a word to the doctor since... Donovan is confined to desk work at the moment. Lestrade said something then. Unless it was Mrs Hudson? No, she’d never hurt John like this. While Sherlock was musing over the possible cause of John’s obvious tension, the doctor had turned and walked up towards his old room.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to call him back, desperately wanting to know that root cause of the distress in his favourite army doctor, but the phone vibrated in his hand, alerting to holder that a text had arrived.  
\- I’m sorry John. I’m sure you both will be fine. Text when he’s figured out some of the cases. – GL  
\- What did you say Lestrade? – SH  
\- It’s not for me to say, have you figured any of the case out yet? – GL  
\- Geraldine Thomas case, it was the step-brother. – SH  
\- Thanks Sherlock. – GL  
Sherlock smiled at Lestrade’s easy acceptance of his verdict. It pleased him to know that no matter what had happened Greg Lestrade still trusted his judgement. He reached into the box to pull out another case file, relaxing easily into the mindset needed to close cases.   
oooooooooOooooooooo  
It was a few hours before John decided to emerge from his room. He had sat still, staring at a blank portion of the wall for far too long, and now he was paying the price. His muscles were stiff and he could only make stiff jerky movements.  
He had been thinking about what Lestrade had said. Of course he hasn’t told me anything, Sherlock never tells me anything until it’s absolutely necessary, even if it is something really important, like committing fake suicide. All I’ve been is a small hindrance on the road to his success. I was only there so that he could have someone praise his brilliant deductions. I was never classed as someone important. Not important enough anyway. I wonder what the hell happened to him. Why won’t he tell me? Not even as a friend but as a doctor. Surely I have some right to know. But I don’t know if I want to be told. God, if Moriarty has done this...   
As he walked into the living room he saw that his flatmate had not moved from the position that John had left him in. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s single mindedness and stepped into the kitchen to make the obligatory cup of tea.  
“Tea?” the question was almost not worth asking, the doctor knew that Sherlock hardly ate or drank when he was working on a case, and these cold case files would be no different. But still, manners are important, and he wasn’t going to deny the detective a warm cuppa.  
“Yes please John.” The deep baritone voice startled John as it came from closer than he was expecting. He turned to find that Sherlock was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, watching him very closely.  
“Umm...” the doctor was speechless. Well this is definitely a first. “But, you’re working on a case.”  
“Excellent deduction John, except for the fact that I am not working on a case right now.” Sherlock said quirking up an eyebrow. “And as I am not working on one, I would like a cup of tea. Black, two sugars please.”  
“I remember.” John turned back to the kettle and set about making enough tea for two. “So umm... Sherlock?”   
“Is this about what Lestrade said at the Yard?”  
“How did you...? Never mind. It is sort of to do with that.” John paused, unsure of how to continue. He looked at his flatmates face, wondering if he would find any insight into his question in his facial features. “Do you think... that you... umm... will ever tell me?”  
“Tell you what John?”  
“Are you deliberately being obtuse? Believe me; it doesn’t work on you Sherlock. I meant about everything; what happened on the rooftop of St Bart’s, what happened in the three years that you weren’t here, and what made you come back to me... umm here.” John pushed the words out in a rush, before he could convince himself that he really didn’t need to know all of these things. He found himself unable to look in the silvery grey eyes of the consulting detective that was still sat before him. John twisted his fingers together, almost willing Sherlock not to answer, but knowing that he would.  
“John... I... I’m sorry.”  
The apology that left Sherlock’s lips made John’s head lift and look into the pools of grey, trying to find the sincerity that he was sure that Sherlock’s admission of guilt would lack. But in those eyes, all John could see was genuine retribution for what the younger man had put the army doctor through. Sherlock’s frame was stiff and straight, it seemed like the apology had only been the beginning of something that required physical bracing against.  
“James Moriarty was up on the rooftop with me,” the detective began explaining, tearing his eyes from John’s, staring at a spot on the kitchen floor, “I knew that he wanted me to commit suicide that would be the ultimate victory, after all, he had just destroyed all of my credibility. I was a laughing stock; nobody would ever trust me again. So I asked him to meet me up there. I knew that I could outsmart him, but I had made precautions just in case.”  
“Molly...”  
“Exactly, she was the one who noticed that I had finally figured out Moriarty’s plan. She offered her assistance, and I’m amazed to say that she played her part very well indeed.  
So I was up on the rooftop with the consulting criminal himself. He was trying to convince me to jump. He brought up you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. You were... you were going to be... shot. He had three different snipers, poised to shoot you at the slightest indication that I was not going to jump. Moriarty had made sure that all of the people I cared most about were hanging in the balance of my decision. I have to admit that I was seriously considering just running off the roof.”  
John paled at this disclosure; he gripped the kitchen side tightly so that he did not collapse under the weight of the divulgence that Sherlock had bestowed on him. He jumped to save me. The realisation made the army doctor feel completely inadequate and unworthy of this great man’s sacrifice.  
Sherlock noticed the doctor’s sudden reaction to the tale, and paused until John had regained some colour in his cheeks, before continuing.  
“But I saw the small loophole in this plan; Moriarty was my ‘get out of jail free’ card. While he was there, I didn’t have to kill myself. But when I revealed this Moriarty pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head. I couldn’t see a way of saving you without dying. So I stepped up on the ledge and...”  
“You called me, and jumped.” The cold voice of John Watson had returned. Sherlock flinched at the desolation that was just detectable under the surface of the hard exterior that John was projecting. “You don’t have to tell me anymore, Sherlock, I don’t think I want to hear anymore.”  
Sherlock nodded his acquiescence of John’s request. He felt the inexplicable urge to reassure the doctor, so acting on the oddly human impulse that pulsed through him; the consulting detective reached towards the still shaking army doctor and enveloped him in a tight hug.  
The sudden contact shocked John. He stood still for a few seconds adjusting to the hug. It wasn’t the first time that the sociopathic detective had craved his hugs, but there was something different in this hug. It was almost as if Sherlock was hugging John for the doctor’s benefit rather than his own. John was still reeling from the horrible recount of the events on the rooftop, but he began to relax slightly under Sherlock’s arms. He jumped for me. So that I would be safe. The thought rolled around in his head, he was unable to think of anything else. The incredible sacrifice was daunting to say the least. And I thought that Sherlock didn’t care.  
The two men stood in the kitchen supporting each other, wrapping their arms further around the other, revelling in the contact. John wasn’t sure when he had begun hugging Sherlock back but he didn’t feel the need to question it deeply. All he knew was that the embrace was calming and felt right. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped tighter on the detective’s shirt, needing to feel his presence under his fingertips. He tried to convey all of the gratitude and worry that John was feeling, in the hug to the consulting detective.  
“Don’t do that to me again Sherlock,” John mumbled against the silk shirt, “I don’t think that I could lose you again.”  
Sherlock responded by leaning his head on John’s, “I promise. I don’t think that I could leave you again John. You are my partner.”


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a week since Sherlock had divulged the circumstances that led him to fall from the hospital roof and John was yet to truly accept the fact that the detective had sacrificed himself – if only fraudulently – to save his life. The army doctor had spent a lot of time tending to Sherlock’s every whim after that, unable to think of any other way to repay him. Though Sherlock had insisted that it wasn’t necessary, John physically couldn’t stop the compulsion to attend to the consulting detective’s needs. He had sat through all of the experiments, listened to the screeching violin at three in the morning, and took notes on the theories on the various cases that spewed from Sherlock’s lips.  
But he still felt like it wasn’t enough.  
“JOHN!” the bellow echoed throughout the flat, “I need some more hydrogen peroxide and type A negative blood!” John smiled at the bizarre request, as he did each time Sherlock demanded more obscure objects. He walked into the kitchen, trying to see what on earth the detective would want with blood and hair bleach.  
Sherlock was hunched over his microscope, staring at another small slide that contained goodness knows what, making the occasional note in the little black book that contained all of his wacky experiments. John simply stood in the doorway staring at the lithe detective as he worked, finding peace in the movement of his chest as he inhaled. The sheer fact that Sherlock was still breathing was a great comfort to John, especially as the nightmares had started to return again. The night time terrors centred on Sherlock; many featuring a walking corpse; the full view of the man who had jumped, complete with blood pouring down his cheeks from the broken skull; the deathly pale skin which had taken on a whole new meaning. The Body never said anything to John in these dreams, only stared at the poor doctor with saddened eyes.  
“Which case is that for then?” John smile grew larger at Sherlock’s jolt of surprise, pleased to know that he could still make the seemingly infallible detective jump.  
“It’s for the last case, Anna Scott. I think that it might actually have been a suicide, but I need to see what happens to blood when it comes into contact with hydrogen peroxide.”  
“Why?”  
“Isn’t it obvious? Come on John you’ve seen the case file,” Sherlock shook his head at John’s ineptitude, before continuing, “Anna Scott was a natural red head. She dyed her hair blonde when she turned eighteen as an act of rebelliousness against her parents. But shortly before her death, her boyfriend broke things off causing her to become very highly distressed – if the reports are anything to go by. She was seen last by her sister on the Thursday evening before she went out to speak with said ex-boyfriend, and when she wasn’t home by the next morning the police were alerted. She was found without the bag she left with, and severe head wounds and internal bleeding. Not uncommon with those of suicide victims. But the injection marks on her skin and the traces of heroin in her blood tell us otherwise.”  
“Yeah, that’s all great but why do you need the bleach?”  
“If she was the one who injected herself with the drug then there would be traces of hydrogen peroxide on the blood around her puncture wound,” Sherlock smile before revealing the pièce-de-résistance, “She had dyed her hair that afternoon, John.” The smug look that covered his face whenever he completed a deduction had reared its head. The detective sat back on the kitchen chair with his arms folded across his chest and smirked at John.  
The army doctor was impressed, as ever, and nodded his approval at Sherlock. “Alright then clever clogs, have you finished being a show off now?”  
“Of course not John, I’m a show off – that’s what we do!” The familiar line was delivered with the exact same tone and inflections as it had the first time Sherlock had said it. The Hound of the Baskervilles, it almost seems like an entire world away, God that was a dodgy case. Though I think the scariest thing was definitely when he tried to make me a cup of coffee, shit that was vile! Kind of sweet though, even if it was just an experiment.  
“Well if it is absolutely essential to the case I guess I’ll just go out and get it.”  
John turned, ready to grab his wallet off the mantel piece and find his coat. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder; John stared at the long, thin, familiar fingers that were gripping his shirt, not allowing him to move any further into the sitting room. He was distinctly aware of the slow breath of the man behind him and the slight twitch of Sherlock’s little finger.  
John didn’t want to break the fragile moment that had been created between the two of them, he didn’t understand why he felt the need to preserve the touch but the overwhelming sensation stopped John from severing the contact. The army doctor was holding his breath in anticipation, for what, the doctor did not know, but that did not stop him from depriving his brain of oxygen. He could hear the blood rush in his ears and felt his pulse jump.  
The silence of the moment was coming to a rapid close, as John knew that he could not stand there for much longer without curiosity getting the better of him. He licked his lips before preparing his vocal cords to smash the stillness.  
“Yes?”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
Sherlock wasn’t sure what had possessed him to follow John out of the room. He was even less certain of the motivation to put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. All he was aware of was the feeling of the cotton shirt under his fingertips; he could make out the defined muscles of his right hand shoulder; the feeling of the heat emanating from his flatmates skin. He could feel his own pulse jumping, and he hoped that John wouldn’t choose today to be perceptive and notice the change in his heart rate. Although he was worried about the discovery of his erratic pulse he could not find it in himself to detach himself from John’s shoulder.  
The question that John posed shocked Sherlock from his internal reverie. The sudden reappearance of his senses came with an influx of information, he noted that his pulse was not the only one that was elevated; he saw a distended vein in the side of his flatmate’s neck and was slightly confused as to the cause. I must have given him quite a shock; I doubt that he was expecting me to move after him. I rarely do. Yes, that must be it. It couldn’t be for any other reason, right?  
He felt movement under his hand; John was turning to face him. Oh yes, John asked a question.  
“I could come with you, if you want?”  
The offer shocked both parties. So much so that Sherlock withdrew his hand with such speed that it almost dislocated his shoulder. The expression on the doctor’s face was astonishing; his eyes were wider than saucers.  
“Really?” The incredulity in John’s voice was unmistakeable. So obvious that Sherlock was almost offensive.  
He raised an aloof eyebrow, “Yes. I do occasionally get out of the house you know.”  
“But I thought that Mycroft still hadn’t resurrected you yet. Or have you just not bothered to tell me?”  
Damn. Mycroft, I had forgotten about that. Why won’t he just hurry the fuck up? I swear he’s just doing this on purpose, how difficult is it to tear up a death certificate? One that he knew was false in the first place. I bet he thinks that he’s keeping me out of trouble.  
“Umm...”  
“I knew that he hadn’t! Sherlock, you know that you cannot be allowed out! The press would have a field day. Not to mention that they’d never leave us alone.”  
An idea struck Sherlock suddenly. He mentally slapped his forehead for not thinking of this earlier, “I could go in disguise.”  
He could see John considering this idea, his face thoughtful as he weighed the pros and cons of Sherlock’s scheme. His own smile had grown when he saw that John was leaning more towards bringing the consulting detective with him.  
“Okay then Sherlock, come out in disguise. Wear that ginger wig and moustache you wore for the Knight in Tarnished Armour case. Even I couldn’t recognise you in that get-up.” John grinned up at the detective; it was like planning to go out on a chase for a murderer, though it was nothing more than a trip to St. Bart’s. Sherlock felt his own lips quirking up at the edges before he whirled towards his bedroom; he was practically running to don his cover.  
FINALLY!  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face as they walked down the street towards Tesco’s, his eyes kept sliding towards the ginger haired gentleman who was strolling beside him. Sherlock had adopted a slight hunch and limp, changing his normal loping grace with surprising ease. John was glad to see that the consulting detective also had a seemingly permanent grin on his face, their eyes met and John looked away quickly. His slid his eyes back towards Sherlock to find his friend doing exactly the same, they both giggled like small children at the immature actions.  
They walked along in companionable silence, punctuated only by the occasional snort of laughter when their eyes met, until John’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He pulled it out, waiting for the text to load.  
\- Sherlock’s been cleared. I’m doing a press conference in 10 minutes. I recommend that you go to the NSY and wait with Lestrade. Please make yourself presentable. – MH  
\- OK. Thanks, I’ll let Sherlock know and we’ll be there in about 5. –JW  
“Hey, we need to go to the Yard. You’ve finally been cleared.” John said in hushed tones, careful not to let his voice carry across the street. He watched Sherlock’s signature smile spread on his face once more. The entire demeanour of the man stood before him changed before his eyes, he stood straighter and the light in his eyes returned. John was pleased to see the familiar glint of anticipation that was reflected in the consulting detective’s irises. The game begins again.  
“Thank God for that,” the whisper washed over John, the relief in Sherlock’s voice was obvious, “I can take this fucking wig off! It’s itching like a bitch!”  
The laughter that bubbled under the surface broke free of John’s constraints and he convulsed with the chuckles that wracked his body at Sherlock’s quiet exclamation.  
“Come on you nutter,” John said, after he had regained control of his motor functions, he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tugged gently, “Let’s go bring Sherlock back.”


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade’s face was a picture of delightful confusion. John saw that the Detective Inspector’s eyebrows had furrowed into each other as he walked towards him with the still ginger clad Sherlock. He smiled at Sherlock’s ability to confuse the D.I. even when Greg knew that he was coming.  
“John,” Lestrade nodded in way of acknowledgement. He looked John’s companion up and down for a few moments before comprehension dawned, Lestrade’s face became lighter and he grinned up at Sherlock, “Nice to know that you haven’t lost your touch.”  
Sherlock winked at the Detective Inspector before slinking into Lestrade’s office. John watched as he settled himself down in the plush leather seat and put his feet up on the small space on Lestrade’s desk. “Took you long enough, Lestrade. What’s a man to do when the Detective Inspector can’t see through a couple of ginger locks?”  
Greg laughed at the consulting detective’s words; his eyes twinkled whenever they looked upon Sherlock – who was now stripping himself of the wig. “You know, you kind of suit ginger hair, you have the complexion for it...”  
“Shut up Lestrade, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
John snorted at the derisive comment and sat in the chair opposite the detectives. He watched silently as they bantered back and forth about who had the better grasp on complexion and the genetics involved with having red hair. He had missed this, Lestrade played a big role in Sherlock’s life and it had been hard for the two to be separated – loathe as they were to admit it out loud, John had seen both of them struggle not to be in contact. Mycroft had made sure that the D.I. was not allowed to enter 221B, no matter how hard the three protested. They had eventually conceded that it would be too suspicious. But that didn’t mean that they liked it.  
Sherlock was back down to his normal day wear. A sleek black suit combination, paired with a flaming red silk shirt, all tailored – of course. That red shirt does look good on him, but I think I prefer the purple one...  
Wait... WHAT?  
“So, John, what do you say?” Sherlock’s voice pulled him from his sudden internal revelation. Both Lestrade and his flatmate were watching him with expectant expressions plastered across their faces. John saw that Sherlock was trying to see what had made the army doctor so inattentive, so John placed a well practised mask of indifference over his features.  
“I... err... wasn’t listening. I tuned out after you started debating recessive genes.” The slightly sheepish tone crept in to John’s words, much to his chagrin. Army training, they never let you forget it when your mind wanders.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s response, “I said, are you willing to come down and sit with me at the press conference?”  
“Oh... Yeah sure, why not?”  
John saw a slight relaxation in Sherlock’s face, he was obviously dreading having to go down there by himself. Understandable, these people ripped him to shreds last time he was alive. He smiled at the consulting detective and stood, ready to leave with the two men.  
“You do realise that Anderson is going to hate that you’re back.”  
And with that, all three men broke down into completely inappropriate giggles as they left the D.I.’s office.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
“Well, that went better than expected,” John said to Sherlock as they left the briefing room, smiling up at the consulting detective. Sherlock nodded his agreement with John’s statement as they both strode down the corridor. Sherlock’s stride was lengthening with each step and John had to struggle to keep up with him. He must be eager to get outside, minus the disguises this time.  
They burst through the front of the Yard and were met with a wall of flashing cameras, thrusting microphones, and impertinent questions that were asked at an impressive volume. Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John – who wasn’t expecting him to do so – careered into him. The doctor saw the tense set of Sherlock’s shoulders and the clenched fists that still hung at his sides. He knew that if he looked into the consulting detective’s eyes, John would see poorly hidden terror. Apparently, Sherlock and people still did not mix. The army doctor side stepped around the statue that was still blocking his path, and summoned all of his army training. He grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and tugged him closer to the crowd of reporters, who continued to hurl inane questions at them, the pair at had already answered the majority in the briefing room.  
“MOVE!”  
John’s larger-than-life Captain’s voice had the desired effect on the reporters. They parted like the Red Sea before Moses and John pulled Sherlock through the masses ahead of the press regaining control of their motor functions. Luckily, Lestrade had had the foresight to order the pair a taxi and it was idling by the curb, ready to take off as soon as they stepped inside.  
John slammed the door to the cab shut and barked to the driver, “221B Baker Street, as quickly as possible.” And with that command, John and Sherlock were whisked away from the horrendous crowd of journalists.  
The army doctor took a deep breath, willing away the commanding attitude that his past training had given him. It was helpful to get them out of that situation, but it would not aid him in any way to use that tone on the shell-shocked consulting detective.  
When he was sure that he would not bark demands at his friend, John turned towards Sherlock to find the consulting detectives eyes already upon him. They studied each other for a time before John broke the silence.  
“Are you okay now?”  
Sherlock cocked his head to the side, seriously considering the question – for which John was grateful for, he didn’t like it when Sherlock brushed aside his emotional well-being. It was a time before the consulting detective answered John with a slight nod of his head.  
“You sure? You kind of froze up on me there. Was it just shock at seeing all those people, because you know that you’re still something of a legend around here Sherlock? They bring up your name whenever there is a difficult case or if a celebrity is seen wearing a deerstalker. They compare their photo with yours...” John was aware that he was babbling, but he had never seen Sherlock react like that. He’d always been slightly hesitant of the press, but he’d never fully shut down in front of them. It worried him how vulnerable Sherlock had looked.  
“I’m fine, John.” The baritone voice of the consulting detective soothed John’s nerves slightly, it did not rid him of them entirely but it did take enough of the edge off so that the army doctor relinquished the line of questioning. He turned his head away from Sherlock and stared out into the grey miserable afternoon, watching the world whizz past.  
They sat in silence for the rest of the cab drive, Sherlock’s eyes did not move from John, and the doctor could feel his friends gaze boring into the back of his neck.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
The consulting detective was curled up in on himself; he had detached himself from an ever-present army doctor, and had retreated into his room to think things over. He needed the space from John, in order to get his mind straightened out. As much as John meant well, he couldn’t involve the army doctor with this problem. It wouldn’t be fair on him. Sherlock knew that John would only freak out and insist on hearing all the details, and then would drag him to a psychiatrist. That had happened more than enough for a lifetime. It had been a completely unexpected emotional response, and Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.  
After the incident outside Scotland Yard, Sherlock had tried to delete the panic that had flooded through his system when he was faced with the sea of people, but he was continually unsuccessful. It seemed that in this instance, his mind did not want to co-operate with his demands. Sherlock knew exactly what had triggered the response; his past was haunting him again. The inability to delete the most terrifying points in his life was becoming an increasingly big problem as the memories persisted on resurfacing at the most inopportune moments. John’s concern for him had made Sherlock embarrassed at his failure to hide the fear. Though he had to admit that the doctor’s display of dominance in front of the reporters had been delightfully intriguing, but unfortunately Sherlock had been otherwise incapacitated and thus unable to enjoy it as much as he would have liked.  
Sherlock sighed at his failings, and flopped back on to his bed. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his system had begun to fade. And with the fading hormone rush, the memories of why he had frozen began to flood back into his mind.  
Everything hurt. His entire body was aching uncontrollably. The throbbing in his head had reached a climax and it was pounding behind his closed eyelids. He attempted to push his fingertips into his eye sockets in an effort to ease the pain, but found that he could not move his arms. They had been restrained with some sort of handcuffs; but Sherlock wouldn’t be able to tell what they were until he opened his eyes.  
He attempted to make a mental list of all the parts of his anatomy that was in agony, prioritising by whatever body part hurt the most, but Sherlock didn’t get much further than his cranium before giving up. Everything just hurt too bloody much.  
He took a deep breath, wincing when the action disturbed a rib that protested loudly. Right, no deep breaths. He moved his head slowly, testing his neck. It was tight and stiff. I’ve been here a while then. And unconscious for the majority of it, I suppose. Sherlock independently wiggled each section of muscle that wasn’t tied up, testing it all for other potentially hazardous injuries. Luckily nothing seemed to be broken, there were a few cuts and bruises, but nothing seriously life threatening.  
The consulting detective then started to sort through his memories, searching for any clues to show him where he was and how he had got there. But Sherlock was drawing a blank. Never before had he experienced such a degree of amnesia due to a head injury. The last memory Sherlock had was of talking to a Doctor John Watson in St. Bart’s hospital. He assumed that this must be an important memory, for it to have lingered in his mind, but he couldn’t pin point the significance. Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the memory loss. He knew that the only way to possibly gather any more information was to examine the current surroundings. However he was still reluctant to open his eyes to his current location. It would bring about a harsh reality that the consulting detective wasn’t sure that he was ready to face.  
Sherlock braced himself, and slowly opened his eyes.  
He squinted against the harsh, artificial light that assaulted his eyes. The glaring light of the fluorescent bulb ebbed slightly as his pupils adjusted to the shine.  
The information the room held came flooding in.  
The door was obviously new, locked and bolted from the outside. The laminate flooring was also new, and it had tell-tale scratch marks that told Sherlock that he had been dragged in on this chair; inevitably meaning that there was more than one holding cell in this place. There were no windows, leading him to believe that he was in a basement. The walls had flaking green paint and extensive water stains. There was an open drain in the corner, which reeked of sewage and vomit. Sherlock didn’t dwell on what purpose that would serve. In the top right corner of Sherlock’s vision lay a small camera, the blinking red light let him know that he was being filmed. The camera was flanked by two speakers, obviously there to let Sherlock listen to whoever it was that brought him here, without the perpetrator having to be in the same room.  
As Sherlock was staring at a tiny bloodstain on the edge of the door that had caught his eye, the speakers crackled to life. Sherlock flinched at the unexpected noise, having become too accustomed to the sound of his own breathing being the only filler in the void of silence. When the initial screech had subsided an indiscernible chatter came blaring out of the speakers.  
It was a combination of lots of people speaking at the same time, all talking really loudly, over the top of one another. Hardly any words were distinguishable to the consulting detective’s ears. It was a painful onslaught of unattainable information. The worst form of torture that could have been inflicted on Sherlock. Physical abuse was tolerable; he had felt enough of that before to be able to deal with it, but the mental deprivation of information was too much to bear, especially as the fight with Moriarty was still raw and difficult to deal with.  
MORIARTY. That’s why he was here. Sherlock could remember what he had been doing before the attack.  
He had been out in Switzerland, searching for the remnants of Moriarty’s web. He was hot on the trail of some more prominent assassins in the middle of Geneva when he was ambushed in his hotel room. This had been a surprise, as Sherlock wasn’t aware that anyone had been following him, and if there was one thing that the detective hated, it was surprises.   
The men, clad entirely in black, had burst through the door when Sherlock was reading up on a case file that Mycroft had sent him. No fewer than ten men had come into the suite, all packing severe looking rifles and handguns. The majority of which had been pointing in his direction.  
If Sherlock hadn’t been surprised, he doubted that the men would have been able to get the drop on him. But he was mortified to admit that he barely struggled in the initial seconds. He was grabbed by three of the ambushers, and forced on to the rough carpet.  
When the shock of the attack had worn off, Sherlock began squirming beneath the men, but two of them were straddling his back, and two others were holding down his arms and legs. He was effectively trapped.  
He turned his head to the side, trying to avoid getting his nose squished further into his face. Sherlock’s muscles instantly tensed at the sight that greeted him.  
A hypodermic needle was hovering inches from his face.  
It was held by the one man that wasn’t carrying a weapon, but in every other aspect was exactly the same as the other assailants. The leather gloved hand came closer. Sherlock could smell cigarette smoke that clung to the material.  
That was the last thing that the consulting detective remembered before he woke up here.  
Moriarty must be behind this then. Or at least, if it’s not him, it’ll be one of his minions... OH GOD THAT NOISE!  
The horrid cacophony made the pounding in his head even worse. His concentration level slipped with every second his was subjected to the constant chatter.  
In minutes Sherlock could feel warm rivulets of tears dripping down his face. He hated the display of weakness but they were unstoppable, they spilled over the edge of his eyes no matter how hard Sherlock attempted to stop them. The tears would have been bearable, if it weren’t for the knowledge that he was being watched. Breaking down on your own was one thing, but having witnesses to his weakness was so much worse.  
The noise continued for hours. And the hours stretched on for days. Sherlock slipped in and out of consciousness, never escaping the sounds that battered his ears.  
Never escaping.


	11. Chapter 11

The black suit mocked him; it was so similar to something that the detective would have worn, back when he hadn’t left the doctor alone, by himself in the harsh reality that was life without Sherlock Holmes. The suit would have been the same, except it was tailored exactly to John’s measurements, but it was still shabby in comparison to the compilations of silk and satin that Sherlock had worn. In many ways, the comparison between the two suits was very much similar to the comparison of the two men, in John’s eyes. He was always the lesser man, when it came to competing with the consulting detective no one would ever win. But the army doctor could not help but feel like no one ever paid him much mind, people’s eyes would gloss over him and be stuck on the high cheekbones, curly black hair, and those shrewd eyes that missed nothing. His voice was never heard over the rich baritone medley that spilled from Sherlock’s mouth, his words never recognised in the middle of the detective’s deductions. John, himself, had become a shadow, hidden in the shadow of someone who would always be far greater than himself.  
But now there was no one to hide behind.  
The black suit was still hanging there, waiting for John Watson to make it into another average thing, much like the man himself.  
The black suit wouldn’t leave.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
It was the third time that week that John had rushed down in the middle of the night, convinced that there was music emanating from the living room. He could have sworn that he had heard the classical sound of Bach’s Air on a G string, one of Sherlock’s favourite pieces. But he only found the living room tragically empty. The violin was still in the corner on its stand, exactly where the consulting detective had left it. There was no sound at all, except the panting breaths that John was drawing in.  
The empty flat had taken on a chill. John was shivering in the thin pyjamas he was clad in. But he didn’t leave the living room. He couldn’t force his feet to leave. He was clinging to the rapidly retreating hope that he had just missed Sherlock; that the consulting detective had just walked out of the door and would be back any second.  
His bare feet were turning blue and the shivers had begun wracking his body. The silence of the room was deafening in John’s ears. He could not take the silence any longer.  
A solitary tear rolled down the army doctor’s cheek.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
It was a year since John had been left alone, all by himself in the empty world. He had dreaded waking up on this day. John knew that it would mark the start of the end. A year of grieving was more than enough, and he was sure that if Harry or Mrs Hudson saw him like the emotional wreck he was inside, they would force him to go back to that joke of a therapist.  
John blinked away the sleepiness that was clinging to him with some regret. He wished for nothing more than for this day to be over. He wanted to slip back into the realm of dreams where he could pretend, if only for a few more hours, that Sherlock was still with him. That John wasn’t alone. But the harsh light that was filtering in from the window was banishing the last grasps of fatigue, shattering any hope of John falling asleep again.  
He groaned aloud and rolled over to see what time it was. Unfortunately it was a perfectly adequate time to get up; there was no excuse for staying in bed any longer. John groaned again and pulled back the warm duvet, readying himself for the day ahead. He glanced around the room as he readied himself for the physical onslaught that would bombard his senses as soon as he removed his tired body from the mattress.  
The room hadn’t changed since the first night that John had stayed there. The floor was covered with a layer of grime, rubbish, and clothes. The dark wallpaper was stained with numerous amounts of unmentionable stains; the curtains were in a similar condition. It had lost the scent of the consulting detective long ago, but John could still imagine it clearly. The wishful aroma of silk, expensive cologne and dark chocolate filled his nostrils as he surveyed his living quarters. He sighed as he recognised the fact that this room would never smell like the enigmatic detective again.  
John pulled his clothes on, his limbs on auto-pilot. He barely noticed the slide of cotton over his torso, or the feel of the woollen socks he had pulled on to his feet. The beige jumper he pulled over his head was a slight comfort, but not enough to make him motivated enough to remove himself from his room.  
The doorway loomed ahead of John, beyond it laid an empty flat. Exactly the same as it had been for the past year. John couldn’t bring himself to push through that final barrier. Once he had left his room there would be no return, he would have to face the reality that Sherlock wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for an entire year. He would have to face the forlorn truth that he had been abandoned. Left alone - in the harsh, desolate world.  
He didn’t want to face it.  
He couldn’t face it without Sherlock by his side. It scared John, the thought of the finality. Everyone had said that the first year was the worst. After the initial year John didn’t get to use the excuse of his flatmate’s death for not functioning. After today he would be expected to resume his place in the normalcy of society. He couldn’t hide behind the doors of 221B, he couldn’t hide behind the shadow that Sherlock left, and he couldn’t hide behind his grief.  
The army doctor was stood almost motionless in the middle of the room, holding back the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes.  
John pressed his fingers to his wrists, feeling the pulse that rhythmically throbbed just under a thin layer of skin. He felt the valleys that rose and fell across his flesh.  
He pushed his fingers deeper into the scars that littered his wrists, revelling in the release that the pain brought. His mind’s eye tried to create an image that was representative of the pain, but all it could manage was a shiny black colour that clouded his vision. It was so similar of Sherlock’s hair colour that John pushed further into his wrists, trying to use the pain as an escape, trying to run back into the arms of the oblivion. But he could not do it, he couldn’t run from the detective no matter how hard he tried.  
He had started to cut his wrists as a way to have physical release from the pain. Crying just wasn’t working any more. As soon as the funeral was over, and John had begun to be edged out of his reclusion- by none other than his not-house-keeper Mrs Hudson, John had found that the only way he could cope with the day was to cause his body agony. He would cut his wrists to make sure that he wasn’t just dreaming that the world he lived in was the real deal. The constant smarting of the gashes John had carved into his skin, served to remind him that things weren’t the same. The impact that the consulting detective had had on his life far outweighed any other event in his dull existence. Afghanistan, university, childhood; it all paled in comparison with what Sherlock had offered, and what John had willingly accepted. The continual highs of the Work, not to mention the thrill of day-to-day living with the madman himself, had given John cravings for the adrenaline which could no longer be sated. The combination of the adrenaline withdrawals and the depression left in the wake of Sherlock had given John the bleakest outlook on life. Not quite as much to end it – though he had been tempted, though the Browning did look incredibly alluring – so he was stuck in a limbo state, not able to continue but doing so anyway.  
The cuts on his wrists from his latest escapade into the oblivion had only just started to knit themselves back together. The scabs had just closed over the hidden depths of flesh and veins, but that didn’t stop John from tearing back into the newly-healed wounds.  
The anniversary was going to be hard.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John wasn’t quite sure what he was doing on the rooftop of St Bart’s. He could feel the whistling wind whirl around his body, chilling him through his coat.  
Is this what Sherlock felt like as he stood up here? A sense of the inevitability creeping up on him. Readying himself for the one step that would take him away from everyone he loved? I wonder if he felt cold that day. Or if he could feel anything at all.  
John had sidled closer to the edge of the roof, getting closer to the singular step that would bring an end to the suffering. He could feel Sherlock’s presence up here with him. It almost felt like the great man himself was standing beside him, waiting for John to join him in the latest of his hair-brained schemes.  
The army doctor closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of London that wafted up on the breeze. He could hear the wail of the police sirens and the drumming of the notorious London traffic. He could hear the muted buzz of the tourists that wandered around aimlessly. He could hear the cawing of the pigeons and ravens that refused under any circumstances to leave the capitol city.  
For once in an entire year, Doctor John Hamish Watson felt at peace.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John was sat in yet another therapists office, waiting for his next appointment. The similarities between all of the reception areas of every single psychiatrist amused John; he had begun a tally to see if they were actually identical. Small things please small minds, John. He smirked at himself.  
Lestrade had found John on the first anniversary of Sherlock’s death, poised at the edge of the hospital roof. The doctor had been leaning over the side, perilously close to toppling to his death. The D.I. had then insisted on therapy for John’s apparent suicide and self-harming (it was impossible to hide the scars from the Detective Inspector when he had been pulling John away from his fall by the wrists). John had resisted initially but then intervention from Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Harry combined had been enough to make him concede to their wishes. Even if he did think that it was a load of bollocks. Lestrade had refused to let him go back to Lucy Leech - his original therapist, the one he had been assigned once he had returned from Afghanistan – as she had not picked up on the signs of depression and suicidal thoughts, and so had concurrently found him another.  
John hadn’t really got on with the first therapist. In fact, he hadn’t really got on with any form of therapist. The proof was in the amount that he had powered through. He had already gone through four different therapists and John had a feeling that Greg was getting rather impatient with John’s intolerance with the various psychiatrists. But it’s not my fault that they’re all stupid. I do not need this help really. And besides that last one deserved it, telling me that I should just accept that Sherlock was a fake. GOD! How dare he!   
The last therapist had taken some soothing by Lestrade before the D.I. could convince him not to press charges against John after the rather impressive right hook that the army doctor had doled out. The idiotic therapist had gone as far to say that John had idolised the deceased detective before assuming that John had deluded himself into thinking that Sherlock was an omniscient being.  
God that had been a disaster. Not an experience I’m really willing to repeat.  
John was shaken out of his reverie by his name being called by the receptionist. As he walked into the treatment room all that was running through his head was, “BORED!”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John woke from the dreams. Not dreams, memories. He was crying, the tears streaming down his cheeks, landing on the twisted sheets. He hadn’t dreamt so deeply into the past since Sherlock’s return, and it had shocked him how well he remembered the pain. Though he recognised the fact that the damage done by Sherlock’s absence would never be healed, no matter how hard he may wish it to do so.  
The tears continued to fall as John’s torso was contorted by the great sobs that wracked his body. He tried his best to smother the sound in his pillow; John didn’t want the detective to see him like this. He didn’t want to show any weakness to the detective. He had to be strong for Sherlock, if nothing else. He could not let the detective down. He refused to.  
The clinging remnants of the memories stuck with John, reluctant to leave him in peace. The emotions that had tormented him during Sherlock’s absence had reappeared with considerable force and John found himself resenting the detective yet again.  
God knows that he didn’t want to feel that way, if anything John wanted nothing more than to forget the whole thing, and embrace Sherlock with open arms and an open heart.  
John was so busy trying to muffle his distress that he didn’t notice when the bedroom door opened. He did not notice when a lithe figure slipped across the room.  
The army doctor jumped when Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his heaving shoulders, the slim fingers brought unexpected comfort to John. He felt the cool touch of the consultant detective’s skin on his own heated flesh, soothing it as Sherlock traced small circles with the tips of his fingers.  
John sat up, pulling his face out of the pillow. He looked into Sherlock’s grey eyes whilst simultaneously wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. The worry that filled Sherlock’s eyes made John’s effort to dry his face worthless, as the pure emotion that was hung in his grey irises made the tears flow ever harder.  
The army doctor flung his arms around the consultant detective, grasping the back of the cotton pyjama top and scrunching it up in his fists. John had no other desire than to be close to the detective, to feel his heartbeat beneath his own, to feel the heat of his body that pulsed with life. The army doctor buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the scent he never thought he’d smell again.  
They sat there for a long time, simply touching each other. Hugging and revelling in the knowledge that they still had one another. John was touched at how emotionally aware Sherlock was being and squeezed him ever closer.  
Eventually the two pulled apart and studied each other’s faces. John was shocked to see that Sherlock had red-rimmed eyes as well. Though the tear tracks had long since dried, the biological signs of tear shed were evident all over his face. It was a testament to how distressed John had been before Sherlock’s interruption that the army doctor hadn’t noticed.  
John brought his hand around to Sherlock’s face and cupped his cheek in his palm, his thumb stroked across the prominent cheekbone. The detective’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the contact. John hadn’t meant anything but comfort but he found himself enjoying the trust that was evident on Sherlock’s face. The tips of his fingers were hooked into some of the raven black curls as he continued to caress the razor sharp planes of Sherlock’s features.  
The army doctor had found himself leaning in closer to the detective, so close in fact that any further their foreheads would have been touching. John’s eyelids found themselves drooping shut and he closed the distance between the two heads. The doctor’s forehead brushed against the cranium of the detective.  
The hum of contentment came from both mouths.


	12. Chapter 12

“John what was your nightmare about?” Sherlock murmured softly in John’s ear, his voice deep and gentle, he did not want to scare the doctor any more than he was already. He continued to trace tiny circles with the tips of his fingers on the clammy back of the long sleeved grey t-shirt, as he had noted that John appeared to calm whenever he did so. Sherlock could still feel the heaving breaths whistling past the nape of his neck, where John had refused to relinquish his hold. Sherlock had noted that the tears had stopped a while ago but the dry sobbing still continued.  
The detective winced as John tightened the grip he had on the tangled curls at the bottom of Sherlock’s neck, and moved his head so that the tension wasn’t unbearable. The smaller man drew in a great, shuddering breath before whispering, “You weren’t here.”  
Those three words caused something inside of the detective to break. He could feel his chest tightening as the confession wrapped its way around the heart that was hidden deep within Sherlock. His breath hitched as he realised the full implication of John’s words.  
Oh John.  
He gripped the army doctor even tighter, knowing that John needed the comfort and the stability of the detective. He couldn’t afford to be distant now; he couldn’t distance himself from the emotional turmoil that raced through him. He had to confront it. And that in itself was enough to terrify Sherlock.  
Both men shivered simultaneously, the fear evident in both of their body stances, all the muscles taught and tense, joints stiff. They clung to each other as if their lives hung in the balance of this singular embrace.  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
John wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep. All he could remember was hugging Sherlock for an obscene amount of time before the blackness had overcome him and he had drifted into a dreamless sleep.  
The army doctor shuffled around in his bed sheets before coming across a particularly solid section of duvet that wasn’t really supposed to be there.  
The lump groaned when John prodded it, and it rolled closer. Long limbs captured John where he laid. But the army doctor didn’t struggle; he relaxed into the hold, bringing his own arms up to slide around the detective. John hadn’t been aware that Sherlock had stayed the night as well – and he appeared to have slept, which surprised John even further. The heat from Sherlock’s body was comforting and just had a sense of rightness to it that John didn’t question and simply snuggled further into Sherlock’s arms.  
A muffled voice made itself known and John twisted into Sherlock’s neck, “What was that?”  
“John, I’m hungry.” A ruffled head popped up from behind a multitude of pillows and the duvet. Sherlock skilfully wrapped the edge of the quilt under his chin and stared at the doctor mournfully, his lower lip trembling in an irresistible pout. John chuckled at the petulant look on Sherlock’s face before prodding him in the stomach.  
“Well if you’re hungry, I suggest you go and make yourself some toast while I lie here and wait for you to bring me some tea.” John’s eyes twinkled as he watched the detective’s face fall slightly as he realised that John wouldn’t cater to his growling stomach, and then more so as he realised that he would have to make the food himself. Sherlock’s scathing look at John’s relaxed face made the grin widen as the lanky younger man disentangled himself from the duvet and made to stand up. The army doctor settled back into the mattress, content to watch Sherlock huff around the room. He shut his eyes and prepared himself to fall back asleep as soon as possible.  
A feather light touch on his wrists had his eyes open in milliseconds, flashing dangerously at the person who dared to brush along his self-harm scars. No one had ever dared to do that before. He was always so meticulously careful in hiding his pain.  
John stared up into the eyes of the detective, willing himself not to break down, not to get angry, and not to show that he really cared. He wanted to show a reflection of Sherlock, to take the best parts of his sociopathic nature and throw it back at him without being malicious. After all, that was how he had coped without him. Dr John Watson never showed any pain. Not after he decided that Sherlock wasn’t coming back, that he couldn’t deal with everyone fussing over him. So he had created a front. Just one that had worn long sleeves to hide the turmoil that lay beneath.  
“John,” he whispered, “what..?” The detective’s breath ghosted over the scarred flesh, and it made John shiver. The anguish that was relayed in those two words was almost unbearable. John could feel his emotions threatening to break as he realised that Sherlock couldn’t understand why he had done it, but the consulting detective knew exactly what it was. John knew that Sherlock was desperately trying to search for something that would prove it was a falsehood, that John had hoodwinked him somehow into seeing the damage that the razor blades had left behind. John knew that he wouldn’t stop searching until John set him straight and told the truth.  
The army doctor pulled his wrist out of the loose grasp of Sherlock’s fingers and tugged on the sleeve so that the hideous scars were once again covered. He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look into the pools of Sherlock’s emotional agony as he refused to let the detective know the reasons why he had hurt himself. John knew that it would only hurt the detective further, and that would just not do. He could already see that Sherlock was upset with himself for not noticing the signs that John had self-harmed, though John was secretly pleased with himself that he had managed to hide it from the most observant man on the planet.  
The silence dragged out, and John was worried that it might drag the distance between them too – the emotional distance that is. He didn’t want to lose Sherlock. Not again. And this time it would be even worse.  
Time crept by slowly and John searched for any indicator that Sherlock was thinking about running from him. He had watched others do it. Lestrade had when he had found out that John was beyond help. He watched the pale face with an intensity that surprised him.  
A loud gurgle shocked the pair. John jumped to an embarrassing height before demanding, “What the HELL was that?”  
A sheepish grin fell into place on Sherlock’s face, “I told you that I was hungry.”  
oooooooooOooooooooo  
It had been a week since Sherlock had discovered John’s deepest secret and the detective still could not quite look him in the eye, knowing that he was the cause of the army doctor’s suffering. Extreme guilt plagued him whenever he spotted John touching his wrists or caught the occasional glance of one of the scars. They were back to being hidden underneath one of John’s many jumpers, and Sherlock wasn’t sure what he hated more, the scars or the fact that his flatmate still felt the need to hide them from him.  
Sherlock stood up gracefully from his perch on the sofa and glided over to where John was bustling around in the kitchen. He reached out and grabbed hold of a handful of soft fabric. The consulting detective tugged slightly so that John would turn towards him. The bright blue, inquisitive eyes peered up at him, questioning Sherlock’s actions.  
The detective took a deep breath, steeling himself for the emotional onslaught that was about to break. He knew that John wouldn’t want to talk about it. He knew that he would resist the questions that Sherlock needed the answers to. He knew that there was a distinct possibility that John wouldn’t want to speak to him again when he pressed for the responses that Sherlock craved.  
“Tell me about them John. I need to know. I can’t stand it any longer.” The words burst forth, a stream that had finally broken the bank. Sherlock felt a great release, like a giant pressure had been removed from his chest that he had no idea that he was carrying. He revelled in the release for a moment before realising that John needed him.  
The army doctor had turned away from Sherlock, his shoulders tense and straight. They had returned to his army training, as the man always did when he was stressed or upset. It pained Sherlock to know that it was due to his uncontrollable curiosity that John had retreated back to his old, comforting standbys. The army doctor’s hands were clenched tight into fists, the fingers were twitching slightly, betraying John’s urge to start scratching at the scars that lined his wrists. Sherlock winced when he recognized the signs of someone who was dependant on self harm. Please John, don’t think like that. Not now, I’m here, I won’t leave you again. Oh God, I promise you. I swear it. John, just don’t... don’t do that to yourself. You’re better than that. So much better. You don’t need this. I need you. Don’t break yourself because of me, I’m not worth it. God knows I’m not worth it. But you John – my wonderful, fantastic blogger – are a miraculous godsend. Show me a miracle John, one just for me.  
John drew in a deep breath before turning back to face Sherlock. He pushed his sleeves up to the elbow and thrust his wrists towards the detective.  
“I couldn’t cope with knowing that I was alone. I was so alone Sherlock, I didn’t know what to do. Nobody understood. Nobody would have understood. Nobody will ever understand what I went through when you left. You ripped a part of me out Sherlock. You were such an integral part of my life and suddenly you were gone. There was a Sherlock-sized hole inside me. I lived in your flat, Sherlock. Your flat. It wasn’t ours, or mine. It was always yours. You had overtaken my life entirely. Everything had revolved around you for years. I never resented you for it that was just how you were. You always had an addictive personality, and I revelled in it.  
You saved me, you know, when I came back from Afghanistan. I was a mess. I didn’t know what way to turn and you were the person who gave me direction. Sure, it was in the most unorthodox way humanly possible, but you were there. You were a constant. I knew that no matter what, you would always come back to me. Not like my family, not like my army friends. You would be there.  
But you weren’t. You had jumped off that damn hospital. In front of me. In front of me, Sherlock! I had to watch as my best friend in the entire world, committed suicide. Suicide! You just seemed to pitch yourself off the roof without as much as a by-your-leave.  
I felt like I had failed you. I thought that maybe there was something I could have said that would have made you stay alive. If I had known you better then I could have fixed any of the wounds you may have felt. I could have made it better. I felt so guilty, everyday. Every single day.   
I would wake up with the hope that it had all been some horrid dream and you would be sat on the sofa complaining about how I hadn’t made you a cup of tea and that there was absolutely no case on. I would run downstairs thinking that I had heard you scraping on the violin at ungodly hours of the morning. I would hear your phone go and think ‘must be a case’ before I realised that our phones had the same text tone. I couldn’t sit on your armchair, so I got my own. The sofa held far too many memories.  
I slept in your sheets just so I could smell you again. Even after a few months I would fall into the mattress and inhale, hoping that even for a second I would sense your presence. I put my clothes in with yours so that whenever I pulled out a jumper I would smell you.  
Everyone treated me differently. I didn’t want them to; I wanted to just be John, the same old John who wore stupid jumpers and drank tea like it was going out of fashion. But I suppose that they thought I would be offended if they didn’t act cautiously around me. And to their credit, I didn’t actually break down in front of anyone. Except for once.  
It was your anniversary – the first one, that is. I was on the rooftop of Saint Bart’s. I was stood exactly where you had. I was ready to stop it all Sherlock. I couldn’t deal with it. After the first year I knew that people would want me to suck it up. Mourn my loss and move on. I just couldn’t do that. I would never let you go Sherlock. You meant more to me than my family. Hell, you were my family.  
So I was preparing myself for the fall. The end. The finale. The last chapter of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. A tragic story really.  
But Lestrade found me before I could do it. I felt like such a failure. I couldn’t even kill myself right for Christ’s sake! He saw all of the scars from the initial cutting and forced me to go to therapy. It was terrible, they were all incompetent fools. I even hit one. It was a pretty impressive right hook...”  
“Why did you hit your therapist?” Sherlock interrupted incredulously.  
“Oh, well... He wasn’t very nice about yours and my relationship. He said that I hero-worshipped you. Which may have been true to a degree, but then he added that I believed your lies over the truth. Over the truth! God! He deserved everything he got.”  
Sherlock grinned against his better judgement. He watched as John began to smile back, delighted that Sherlock wasn’t going to chastise him like so many others did.  
The consulting detective felt the urge to reach out and stroke the inside of John’s arm, to trace the entirety of his scars. To let John know that he wouldn’t judge him for doing what he did. Sherlock knew that that was what John craved the most, to not be judged for not being strong enough. For not coping. Sherlock could give him that, as he had taken so much already. He left John as a shell of a man, for the right reasons of course, but he had still left.  
Sherlock had never been very good with impulse control, so before he knew it his fingers were brushing against the raised edges of mutilated flesh that lined John’s arms. He felt the army doctor flinch before relaxing against his touch. He trailed his fingertips up and down the criss-crosses, lavishing attention to each individual mark.  
When he was through Sherlock looked back up at John, watching the army doctor come to the realisation that Sherlock was not going to berate him or try to reverse John’s actions. The consulting detective was elated to know that John had begun to trust him once more. Nothing could have brought him more joy at that point in time.  
His chest felt tight and his eyes itched as the waves of emotions crested over him. His vision turned blurry as he leaned towards John, cradling him in an embrace. He felt John’s arms wrap tightly around his back and nothing could hold back the tears any longer. No matter how hard his sociopathic nature protested. John’s fingers swept lines up and down his back, soothing and comforting the consulting detective as he let out the grief he felt for John.  
When Sherlock’s tears had dried, they stayed cradled in each other’s embrace. Afraid that if one moved they might break the other.


End file.
